


Into Each Life

by Barb G (troutkitty)



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Futures Without End, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-03-30
Updated: 2000-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:15:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troutkitty/pseuds/Barb%20G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos finds out there's no more room inside of him than anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into Each Life

**Author's Note:**

> [An illustrated version can be found on the Futures Without End site.](http://mediafans.org/futures3/05intoeach.html)

Walking had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Methos was supposed to meet Mac for lunch, and this way he could drink and not have to worry about leaving his car on the street. It was a nice day, warm for once in the early spring, and the trees planted between the cement blocks were just starting to show their buds.

The walk was supposed to calm his nerves. He had started the day with a bad feeling in the back of his throat, and the sudden echo of footsteps flared his panic responses. There was no warning in his head, and he forced himself to calm down. Paris wasn't as crowded as it would be in a month or so, but there were people about.

Sleep deprived paranoia, that was it. He hadn't well sleep the night before. _Or the night before that_ , he thought, rubbing the back of his neck. His back and shoulders ached down to his hips, and the occasional breath caught him like a knife thrust to the belly. He no longer heard anything behind him, but his relief was instant the moment the caf came into sight.

MacLeod glanced up as he entered the restaurant and then frowned. Mac's hair had grown back; it was now long enough for the edges to sit on his shoulders. For two years Methos had heard nothing from him, and then one day, MacLeod had reappeared in his life, bearing a bottle of Scotch and a chess game. It had taken almost a year before they felt comfortable around each other to the degree they had before, but they worked it out, hesitantly. They slowly rediscovered their common ground and built on it.

MacLeod was obviously struggling for something to say, but probably found nothing polite. It made Methos smile despite himself. MacLeod calmed him just by being there. "Just say it, I look like hell," Methos said, slipping into his chair. It was only eleven, but he ordered a beer.

"I was going to say shit, but hell works as well."

Methos kicked him under the table. "I'm not sleeping."

MacLeod nodded and waited until the waitress brought Methos the green bottle before continuing. "I'm going to Seacouver tomorrow. Do you want to come?"

"Can't," Methos said, before knocking back half of the bottle. It tingled from the roof of his mouth to his belly. He was in the process of opening up the bookstore again. Without Mac in Paris, Methos had spent most of the time traveling, and the bookstore couldn't survive without him. There was a problem with back taxes owed. Methos hated it, but he had to spend most of the next week with lawyers to work it out.

He hated lawyers, but he wanted to get his life back to the way it had been, and he needed the bookstore. "I'd like to, but I can't."

"Methos?"

"Yeah?"

"Come with me. Amanda said-"

Methos didn't want to hear about Amanda. He shook his head, and MacLeod stopped talking. _What were you expecting, a cozy weekend retreat?_ "The two of you have a wonderful time," he said, but it came out more sarcastically than he intended.

MacLeod paused, probably attempting to find the intended insult. He shook his head. "Why wouldn't we?" he asked.

"No reason. Pretend I didn't open my mouth. Pretend this meeting never happened," he said, throwing down enough money to cover his bill. "I've got things to do. See you around."

He left before MacLeod could stop him.

He was still berating himself as an idiot half-way down the alleyway, but the warning in the back of his head pulled him from his self-flagellation. "Mac?" Methos asked, turning around.

It wasn't MacLeod. Methos grabbed his sword, sobering in an instant. "Dai Miyazaki," the man said, bowing slightly.

"Bill Clinton."

"I can see you are going to be difficult about this," the man said, his voice carrying a slight accent.

"One does ones best," Methos said, as modestly as he could, given the circumstances.

The alcohol in his body slowed his reflexes. Methos thought he had jerked back far enough, but the katana caught him across the arm. He dropped to his knees, stunned by the pain for a moment, and the rest was straight instinct. He grabbed his second sword, jerking the blade up the man's belly. Ropes of intestines fell over his wrist, and Methos stood up, lopping off the dying man's head as Miyazaki tried to push his innards back inside his body.

The Quickening caught him, dropping him to his knees. Blow after blow of lightning hit him as he tried to crawl away from it, but the flashes of energy shot through him. The second warning came when he had no defenses, and he didn't even know where he had dropped his sword. He vomited, wracking his body even more. His stomach felt like it would turn inside out before he finished. He tried to raise his head to see who was coming, but he didn't have the energy.

MacLeod's jacket fell over his shoulders. He recognized it from the smell, because he didn't want to open his eyes. MacLeod took his arms, helping him up. "Come on, I'll take you home," MacLeod whispered, squeezing him for a second.

Methos nodded, inhaling more of the man's scent. Mac let him go, and Methos regretfully pulled away. He'd settle for the momentary touches only because that was all MacLeod was going to give. All he had to do was almost die. Methos almost laughed; it was almost worth it.

~~~~~

Methos finally opened his eyes, still shivering. "Rough one?" MacLeod asked, passing him a cup of coffee. Any other time he would have refused, but he accepted it, wrapping his fingers around the mug.

He nodded. His throat continued to heal, but it was very, very slow. He must have screamed through the Quickening, but he hadn't heard himself.

Methos took a sip of the coffee and stood up. "Thank you," he said awkwardly. He touched the bloody tear in the sleeve. "Do you have something else I could wear?"

MacLeod stood up, bringing back a knitted sweater. It was too big, but it was comfortable. He stripped and disdainfully threw the ruined shirt behind him.

"MacLeod-" Methos began, but had nothing to say. MacLeod didn't expect him to talk. They sat back down in front of a crackling fire and finished their drinks. The panicked, painful heaviness left him slowly. The fire burnt down to its embers, and the last of the drunk left him. "Thank you," Methos began, but then the fire snapped one more time, and he lost his thought. He looked up to watch Mac start to clean off the table. Mac's stubble was a charcoal smudge under his chin, but the bronzed skin only lost part of its shine during the winter. He was beautiful, any time of the year.

"Spend the night here. You're in no condition to walk home, Methos," MacLeod said.

Methos shook his head, standing up. He rubbed his palms against his thighs. "I'll be fine."

"At least let me walk you home."

"I said I'll be fine, Mac. I'm just...tired. Good night."

"Goodnight, Methos," MacLeod said gently, sounding amused.

Methos nodded a goodbye and walked back to his place. His skin still crawled, but he could control it, and his stomach settled down. He hadn't taken a Quickening that badly since Silas, and that had completely stripped him. Miyazaki hadn't felt that old.

~~~~~

At noon, someone rang the doorbell. Methos felt the buzz and stumbled out of bed to answer it, hoping it was just Mac. He took his sword out just in case. "Jesus," MacLeod whispered.

Methos rubbed his eyes. "I'm not that bad," he said.

"Like hell you aren't," Mac's hand touched his cheek, but Methos flinched away.

"MacLeod, don't, please," he said, not liking the sympathy. He rubbed where Mac had touched him and felt his own stubble. He'd forgotten to shave. "I slept in. What are you doing here?"

"Checking on you. You didn't look well yesterday," MacLeod said. His concern was obvious.

"I heal quickly," Methos said. "I'm just tired, Mac. Give me ten minutes to shower and shave and you can feed me."

Mac nodded. Methos had a quick shower, and by the time he'd shaved, he felt human again. He dressed in his most comfortable jeans and sweater and joined Mac out in the main room. "See? Alive and well."

MacLeod just nodded again and passed him his coat. He must have felt the weight of both swords in it, but said nothing.

"Why are you going to Seacouver?" Methos asked.

"Business. It's not important."

Methos only wanted to make conversation, but Mac didn't continue. They were walking to Joe's in companionable silence when both of them felt it. MacLeod put his hand on Methos' arm, "Wait," he said.

A stranger stepped from the shadows. Methos glanced to Mac to see if he knew who it was, but MacLeod just shook his head.

"You," the man said.

He sounded American, but other than that, there was nothing distinctive about him. Average height, average build, brown hair, and smooth skin.

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," MacLeod said.

"Not you, the other one," the stranger said, pointing his broadsword at Methos.

"I'll wait my turn," Methos said, trying to be cordial, holding up his hands. "You two have fun."

"The challenge has been made," MacLeod said, sounding slightly angry.

"It has, by me. I fight the old one, not you."

He knew. Methos didn't know how, but he knew. He pulled his sword free, glancing at MacLeod. Mac shrugged and stepped back. His face twisted, but he would never interfere with a proper challenge.

The sound of metal against metal bounced against the walls of the deserted alleyway, and the sound grated against an exposed nerve Methos didn't know he had. He felt sick to his stomach again, and it wasn't fair that he had to fight the Immortal and his nausea at the same time. Every time he extended himself his body went queer on him.

"What's your name?" Methos managed, wincing as the man beat him back to the wall. He didn't want to die like this, not in front of MacLeod. He ducked, dropping down to one knee to keep his head attached. Sparks flew as the man's blade ran across the brick building, and the sparks landed on Methos' exposed skin. At least he kept his head attached to his shoulders. The blade over his head got stuck between two bricks, and the Immortal took an extra second to try to pull it free. Methos reversed his blade and stabbed the man through the foot.

The Immortal screamed in pain and dropped his blade. Methos snatched the sword, beheading the bastard while he was still doubled over in agony. The first crashing lightning bolt caught him, frying him. He remembered screaming as his hair stood up on end, and then Mac was over him, trying to protect him from the worst. It didn't help. The power came up from the ground to shock him. Vomiting didn't help; he had nothing in his stomach. He knew he was going to die choking on his own bile.

The screaming gasps he made didn't reach his ears, but he heard MacLeod on top of him, hushing him as if he were a colicky baby. Methos turned blindly to the sounds, letting them soothe him as the last of the jolts shot through him. He collapsed, not caring that his face was in the mud because MacLeod was stroking his hair. His body wouldn't stop shuddering, and he couldn't move even if he were challenged again.

"Seacouver's good for me," Methos said, when he could take a breath in that didn't hurt his throat.

"I'll get you a ticket."

~~~~~

As the plane came down through the clouds, the first streaks of rain hit the window. Methos stared at the vertical running droplets, rather than at his traveling companion. MacLeod had given up on polite conversation three hours ago; there was nothing else to be said.

He touched his newly dyed black hair. The cream must have had a lot of conditioner in it, because his short hair was silky. The glasses rubbed uncomfortably against the back of his ears, but he'd put up with the discomfort. It wasn't enough to hide his identity completely, but even Mac had taken a second look at him at the airport.

Customs was [MC1] annoying. Methos went through fairly quickly; the glasses gave him a mildly awkward college professor look, but MacLeod was caught up on the swords, again. The officials opened the tube containing both their swords and examined their papers as if they were in Sanskrit.

It wasn't until MacLeod unlocked the private entrance to the dojo that Methos brought up the subject they had studiously ignored on the plane.

"If it wasn't her, who was it?" he asked.

MacLeod stopped, key still in the lock. "I am telling you, it's not her."

"Who else knows?" Methos demanded.

"Amanda, Joe-"

"Neither of them would rat me out."

"I'm telling you, it's not her!"

"Stake your life on it?" Methos asked, crossing his arms.

Instead of the cautious 'yes' Methos had gotten the last time he asked that question, MacLeod eventually shook his head.

Methos stepped past Mac into the loft, going straight to the refrigerator. The stewardess had taken his last, half-finished beer as they were landing, and he needed another one. "I don't want you going after her," MacLeod said, leaning against the island.

"You wouldn't," Methos agreed.

"That isn't a promise, Methos."

"Were you expecting it to be?"

"I'll talk to her."

"You don't even know where she is," Methos snapped.

"I'll find her."

"You do that."

"Methos-"

"Look, you might like walking around with a target on your back, but I'm finding that mine rubs," Methos said. He closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled through his nose. The breath calmed him down. "MacLeod, she's given me no choice."

"I'll talk to her," MacLeod repeated.

"It won't work," he said, tipping his bottle in Mac's general direction. "What happens when the next charming fellow comes a'courting?"

"We'll take care of that, too."

Methos narrowed his eyes. "Let's do that," he said. Neither one of them mentioned the strange Quickenings, but to him it stank of the witch. Cassandra had a solution, therefore Cassandra was on the top of his agenda.

MacLeod started another fire to ward off the damp chill of the city. Methos let his defenses down, sprawling on the couch. MacLeod was next to him, wrestling with one of his moral dilemmas again. The tension in his face was enough to give it away without him actually opening his mouth, exhaling, and closing it again.

"Let it go, MacLeod. I'm all ears," Methos said, resting his head against the back of the couch.

"Don't you feel anything?"

"My nose is itchy, and I'm still cold."

"I mean about Cassandra."

"I told you. I-"

"One of a thousand regrets. Yeah, I've heard that speech before. But how do you feel?"

"We've all done things, MacLeod. I'm not proud of it, but it was who I was," Methos said, closing his eyes. He didn't want to get into this with Mac. There was no way he could show his side, and it would just drive a bigger spike between them. He wanted to get closer, not be pushed further away. Cassandra, damn her, drove the wedge in deeper, splitting them up.

"But not who you are now."

"You've done things, MacLeod. I've read your file. You haven't always gone the honourable path. If you had met one of Darius' early victims, would you be so forgiving of his past?" Methos asked, shaking his head. "Can we drop this?"

"Don't bring him up."

Methos sat up. "So, I'm the only one allowed to have a less than shining memory?"

"You're not dead yet."

"And if I offer my neck to the next headhunter, will you forgive me?"

"Don't even joke about that. Methos...I..."

"You what?" Methos snapped.

"I care about you. Don't do anything stupid."

Methos sat up. MacLeod's eyes were wide, his hair curled up on his shoulder, and he didn't pull away as Methos touched his thigh. "I am not going to do anything stupid, MacLeod," he said, not meaning his voice to get quite so husky.

"I'm taking that as a promise," Mac said, but he pushed the hand off to stand up. He brought them both back a beer, sitting a good foot away.

Methos accepted the beer and the brush-off.

~~~~~

Mac went to the university the next morning. Methos followed him out but went to Joe's instead. The bar wasn't open yet, but Methos let himself in.

Joe started as Methos entered the office. "What are you doing here?"

"Not bad, Joe, beautiful weather we're having. Yourself?"

Joe looked mildly annoyed. "Hello, Methos, how are you?"

Methos smiled his most winsome smile. "I need some help."

"When don't you?"

"You know, your gratitude sucks, Joe."

"Since when should I feel grateful to you?"

Methos opened his mouth to give him an alphabetical listing, but Joe held out his hands. "Okay, okay, what can I do for you?"

"Cassandra."

Joe suddenly went very serious. "Does MacLeod know-"

"I don't want dates or places. I just want to know if she's had any contact with an Immortal named Dai Miyazaki."

Joe checked the database. He had changed the password again. Methos smiled at that. It was almost as if Joe didn't trust him. Joe opened Miyazaki's file, skimming the last month or so. "They met in Hong Kong, about three weeks ago. They got into an altercation, but she talked her way out of it."

Methos nodded, suddenly feeling just sad. He would have preferred to keep it the way it had been, both of them ignoring the existence of the other, but now it was personal. "Thanks, Joe."

"Are you going to tell MacLeod?"

Methos shook his head. "I think he already knows."

  
MacLeod was late coming home. The dinner was ready; all he had to do was boil the pasta. He'd just turned on the stove when the elevator slid open. "Smells good," MacLeod said as he came into the room.

"Beer?" Methos asked.

"Please."

"Get a lot done today?"

"I think so, I'm ready for the fall term," MacLeod said, cautiously.

"Good."

"Great."

They stared at each other as the pasta water came to a boil, and they both ignored it. "Joe?" MacLeod asked.

"She fought Miyazaki three weeks ago. They both walked away."

Mac's fingers went white around the bottle. He went to the couch, sitting down. Methos put the pasta on and chopped some tomatoes to put on top. He finished off his beer, stored the empty on top of the fridge, and started a new one.

"Are you going after her?" MacLeod finally asked, taking his beer back to the kitchen.

The pasta had finished cooking a while ago. Methos rinsed it with out with hot water again, and piled it on the two plates waiting. "If she tells every Immortal she meets who I am, what choice do I have?"

"Living with it."

"Good plan, Mac. Where do you keep your silver platters? I get a feeling I'll be using a lot of them. Any other part of me you want to serve up?"

"Methos-"

"MacLeod-"

They both stopped, realizing that nothing else had to be said. "You can't involve yourself, MacLeod," Methos said. He left the food where it was and grabbed his jacket.

Methos rested his head against the interior of the elevator for a moment and then banged his forehead against it hard enough to actually hurt. His body shook with anger, not at MacLeod, but at Cassandra for putting him in this situation. He didn't believe in revenge. This had nothing to do with revenge. This was self-preservation with a hint of damage control.

 _That went well, sink his barge the next time you need him_. Methos found the closest hotel that would provide him the comfort he needed and rented a room under a false name. He signed the check-in papers.

"Have a good stay, Dr. Benjamin," the woman said, checking his signature against the back of his card.

Methos tried to smile, but it probably came off more as a grimace. He put the damn key card in the slot wrong twice before the lock flicked to the green light. The interior was dark and cool, and he didn't even take the time to pull back the blankets. He threw his jacket down and collapsed on the firm mattress.

He woke the next morning, and his mouth was so dry it was painful. The light filtered through the heavy curtains, and the morning traffic was just starting to move outside. He drank three glasses of tepid water from the tap before he felt human again. He braced himself against the counter and then stripped down naked. It felt better to feel the slight breeze from the vents.

He took a deep breath, bowing his head to stretch the muscles. He groaned as he worked his shoulder muscles, digging his fingers into the tense muscles alg the back of his neck. He had slept for over twelve hours and still felt like he had been beaten. Warm air suddenly blasted up through the vent at his feet, and Methos tensed for a moment as the dry air touched his testicles. He reached down to cup himself, suddenly enjoying the sensation.

Hand cream waited for him in basket by the sink. _If Mac could see me now_ , Methos thought and then stopped. If MacLeod could see him, he doubted he'd have to do this himself. He smiled and shook his head, not denying himself the fantasy. MacLeod would move behind him and nudge his legs further apart. Methos spread them, almost feeling Mac's knees against the back of his. The cream was cold on his fingers, and he slowly rubbed his thumb around in it, prolonging the pleasure. The marble counter was cold against his thighs as he rocked forward slightly, standing on the balls of his feet as he touched himself for the first time.

The shot of pleasure centered on his groin, but shot up to his shoulders and down to his knees. It was almost a physical blow, and he had to brace himself against the counter to keep from falling. If he closed his eyes, it wasn't his hand touching himself. It wasn't him making his body move against the counter. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the lone reflection in the mirror, and the darkness made it better.

His groan echoed in the small room as he doubled the pace of his fist against his skin. He thrust into his palm and then gritted his teeth. Almost. He shifted his weight against the counter, shifting so that he could move his fist faster and still brace himself, which made him almost hug the sink's fixtures.

But it was the perfect angle. Every motion of his hand brought him closer to the peak, and instead of slightly forcing his body to enjoy it, he couldn't think of enough things to delay it. Ropes of come hit the bathroom sink, almost invisible against the white porcelain, and Methos rinsed it down the sink as he washed his hands.

The warm glow left him quickly, which left him alone in a hotel bathroom, jerking off to the thought of his best friend who wanted nothing to do with him because Methos was going to kill an ex-girlfriend.

The day went downhill from there.

~~~~~

MacLeod didn't stop his kata as Methos entered the dojo. Methos moved to the wall and contented himself with watching the shiny skin move over Mac's muscles. MacLeod didn't notice the stare; he looked too caught up in trying to clear his mind. Half an hour later Mac finally broke off.

"I know you didn't come here to apologize," Mac said, wiping his face off with a towel.

"When you find her I want to talk with her," Methos said instead of responding to the comment.

"I don't think so."

"You want my word? Fine, you have it. I promise I won't swing first."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better, Methos?"

"What do you want from me, MacLeod? What do you want me to say?"

MacLeod shook his head, slowly. "Maybe there is nothing for you to say."

Methos went cold. "Don't do this, MacLeod."

"Don't do what?"

"Go back to the way things were. I'm not going to tip-toe around you. You can't make me feel guilt over something that's ancient history!"

"Why not, Methos? Why can't you go to her and say that you are sorry? What part of you will that damage?"

Methos exhaled softly. MacLeod obviously, honestly believed that it would make everything all right. And if it made him happy, it would be worth it. "Okay."

The words were so soft MacLeod did a double take. "What?"

"I'll do it," Methos said.

MacLeod was speechless. He stuttered for a moment and then smiled. "Thank you."

Methos tried to smile back. He almost succeeded.

~~~~~

MacLeod tried to find her, but in the end, she found them. The dojo closed for the night as both of them felt the warning. Methos had just come back from the store, and he put down the bag of groceries, glad for the weight of the swords against him.

Cassandra stepped into the dojo. She wore a sheepskin coat that was only slightly too warm for the weather, but it hid her sword with nary a wrinkle. She hadn't lost any of her exotic beauty, and for a moment Methos just stared. She glanced at him as if he were something unpleasant that had just crawled out of the sewer and then looked to MacLeod.

"Excuse us," she said, voice cold.

His sentiments exactly. Methos nodded as MacLeod glanced to him as well and then went into the office. Mac turned his back to the glass and sat down at the desk, and by mutual agreement, Methos and Cassandra left the dojo. The sky was just darkening, and the alley way empty but for the cats fighting somewhere.

"I like the new look," she said, circling around him.

Methos took off the glasses and threw them away. "I was getting to be too well known."

She smiled, shedding off her coat. She pulled her sword free, and Methos jumped back, still keeping his away. "I just want to talk."

"I've known what you wanted for a very long time, Methos. Talking was never a priority with you."

"Why now, after all these years?" Methos asked. They still did nothing more than circle each other, but his palms tingled at being empty with a naked sword nearby.

Her smile was hurtful and bitter. "I see you," she said. "I see your dreams at night. I won't let you have him. Anyone else, Methos, but not him. He saved your life once, but not again."

Methos paled. She hadn't come here to hear his words; his apology would accomplish nothing, but he had promised. "I'm sorry," he said, for once truly regretful. "I'm sorry I hurt you, and I'm sorry you won't let it go. Walk away, Cassandra. I don't want to kill you here."

She smiled again. "I don't think so," she said.

Methos pulled his sword. "If it helps at all, MacLeod feels nothing for me," he offered.

"I see his dreams, too," Cassandra said, "He's just better at hiding it than you."

Methos head snapped up. "He what?" he asked, despite himself. The dread of what he was about to do broke for one instant, leaving him more optimistic than he had felt in years. Mac felt it, too. He had a chance.

She held out her hand. "You are getting dizzy, Methos. Sick. Tired. Full."

If was as if someone had reached into his belly and tied his stomach in a knot. He barely managed to keep his fingers around his sword as he dropped to his knees, no longer able to keep on his feet. The nausea started just under his diaphragm and knotted through his intestines. His face flushed as he almost forgot Cassandra stood over him.

She moved closer to him. Sweat gathered and ran down his neck and across his forehead, and he gathered himself up, making it look like he was doubled over in pain. His body rebelled, but obeyed him out of years of practice. "Anyone else, Methos," she said, sounding honestly regretful.

Methos waited until she had extended her body to swing the sword and then sprung. He slammed against her knees, knocking her to the ground. She fought him, and the movement made his head explode in pain, but he managed to pull out his blessed little sword and stab her through the heart. She died, and the sickening agony that spread throughout his body died with her. He collapsed for a moment over her, waiting for his strength to return.

"Methos, no!" MacLeod cried from the doorway. "She spared your life, now spare hers."

Methos regretfully pushed to his knees. "MacLeod, I can't," he said, keeping his voice calm. "She won't let it go. If it's not going to be in this alley, it's going to be somewhere else, and I am not taking that chance."

"Do this, Methos, and I'll never forgive you," MacLeod said. His voice was thick with anger and pain. Cassandra's final revenge, carefully plotted out. If she couldn't keep them apart alive, she'd do it with her death. Methos nodded, sadly.

"I know," he said. But he wasn't willing to risk his life for what might have been. Not for Mac, not for anyone. Nothing was worth dying for. He pulled the blade free, wincing at the sound of it grating against the bone. "And I'm sorry."

MacLeod would never interfere, but he wouldn't wait around for it, either. The Thunderbird took off with a squeal of tires as Cassandra began to revive. Methos knotted his hand more tightly into her hair, and stretched her neck out. "You really are a bitch," he said and brought the sword down.

~~~~~

There was no one around to shelter him from it. Cassandra's ancient Quickening split him in half and left him broken and covered in garbage from the alley. He woke up hours later with a headache that laid him to the ground again. An ice pick had inserted itself into the base of his spine, and every time he moved it scrambled his brains a little more. His feet were cold, and his wallet, with all his credit cards, was a missing pressure against his hip. At least the swords were left in place, and whoever robbed him hadn't bothered to call the coroner. He forced himself to his feet and stumbled back to his hotel room, using the buildings to keep himself up. His head throbbed hard enough to cut into his vision, and he didn't feel the sharp stones or the broken glass.

The concierge at the hotel saw him stumble in and recognized him without his glasses. "Dr. Benjamin! My God!"

Methos let the man help him. "My room," he said, coming very close to passing out. This was ridiculous, the headache should have cleared already, but it still cut through him.

"We'll call you an ambulance."

Methos shook off his head. "No, thanks. Just...take me back to my room."

"Dr. Benjamin..."

Methos shook off the concern. "Just do it," he said.

The poor man muttered something about doctors being the worst patients and helped him back to his room. Methos slept the moment he was put to bed and woke up the next morning not feeling any better. His skin started to itch almost all the time, and the raging headache only dulled slightly.

He spent the morning trying to cancel all his credit cards, and the drain on his concentration made his headache worse. Nothing helped, not the over-the-counter medication or the prescription he wrote himself. It took three days for the last of the pain to leave him, but that sense of bloating inside wouldn't go away. He felt ready to split open, and staying still made the jittery sensation worse. He tried calling Joe, but Joe was wherever MacLeod was, and he didn't know where that was. He wasn't in Seacouver or Paris, at least.

Methos left the hotel on the third day and moved to a cheap boarding house. He had to wear long sleeves to cover up the welts he raised by scratching at his skin until it sometimes bled. They never lasted very long, but there always was a new itch. Voices followed him. In the beginning he could only hear them if he closed his eyes and listened, but within a day they were all around him. He tried to leave messages on Mac's machine, but after he hung up he was never sure what he had said or what number he had dialed.

Ingrid, the daughter of the woman who owned the boarding house, was kind enough to make sure he had food to eat. She was a simple girl, but big boned and kind. Methos thanked her, giving her baubles when he remembered.

He paced a lot, but luckily it was in a neighborhood where no one noticed anything strange about a tall, skinny man continually scratching his arms. It was just that kind of place.

"Methos."

He had felt the warning, but hadn't recognized it as being what it was until the voice spoke from behind him. He turned around, fully expecting it to be MacLeod, but it wasn't. A huge man with ice blond hair blocked off most of the light, and Methos took a step back despite himself. "You are Methos."

Cassandra's last gift, just to drive him over. Numbly he headed for the alleyway, reaching for his sword. The voices, the itching, and the ache in his muscles all stopped, leaving him momentarily stunned by the clarity of his thinking. It would be so much easier to just offer his head to the man and let the agony end, but he realized he couldn't. Despite everything, he wanted to live. One more Quickening might destroy who he was, but he couldn't go quietly.

Defeating the man was surprisingly simple. He fought without thought slowing him down. He read the Swede's body as easily as he knew his own, and the weaknesses were telegraphed to him. Taking the man's head was almost an afterthought, until the first bolt struck him.

Everything returned, including the splitting headache. He emptied his stomach until nothing but blood mixed with the bile and crawled away on his hands and knees, burrowing himself into a pile of garbage bags. He collapsed into the stinking warmth they provided him, staying there until it didn't hurt to move anymore.

When he finally did move, it was only because his throat was so dry he could almost feel his lungs cracking. He couldn't see anything beyond shadows and had to move slowly inch by inch towards the crack of light. The entrance to the alley, he hoped. Every step hurt from the balls of his feet to his ears, and he fell down twice before keeping to his hands and knees.

Luckily, Ingrid found him before the police did. She helped him up, brought him back to his room, and started a bath for him. Methos floundered around, knocking over the glass by the sink, and it shattered. Ingrid helped him to the toilet seat, sat him down, and poured him another glass, handing it to him. He drank, managing not to spill more than half, and the liquid on the back of his throat was heavenly. He could smell himself and knew he stank, but Ingrid didn't seem to mind as she stripped him and helped him into the water. After that, he remembered nothing.

~~~~~

Methos woke up again, some time later, but he wasn't in the cheap boarding house. He sat up, bringing back the headache. He groaned, throwing his arm over his eyes, but nothing sheltered him from it. The pain shook him from every corner of his head, and he couldn't stop the sobbing. Death would hurt less.

A cold compress pressed against his forehead. "Don't fight it. Relax," MacLeod said, and the bed gave way under his weight. The slight roll forward made Methos' stomach rebel, and Mac was there with a bedpan. He had nothing to vomit up, but couldn't clear the disgusting bile out of his mouth.

 _How did mortals do it?_ Methos wondered, spitting up again. Puking, migraines, all the agony their bodies went through every day-he'd slit his wrists first.

"Looks like you were wrong, Methos. There was no more room inside you than any of us," MacLeod whispered, taking hold of Methos' face. The man's rough skin against his sweaty cheeks cooled his body. His head stopped pounding in time with his heartbeat. He swallowed without it making him nauseous.

MacLeod moved down so his lips rested against Methos' forehead. "Let it go, Methos. Let it all go."

 _Let what go?_ he wanted to ask, but MacLeod's lips were hot against his skin, and he couldn't form the words. He tilted his head back, still in his darkness, and just as he started to relax the first bolt of pain shot through him. It was like being electrocuted. He spasmed, slamming up against MacLeod. Mac grunted, but didn't let go of his face.

He writhed in the bed, unable to crawl away from the pain. MacLeod couldn't let go of his face, but Methos started to worry that his neck would snap under his hands. Mac obviously worried about the same thing, because he moved back down to the side of the bed and tried to hold Methos' body still with his own.

Methos hadn't imagined MacLeod to be so heavy. He gritted his teeth harder, feeling like he'd snap them before this spasm passed. He was a mass of exposed nerves, and they were all on fire.

And then, as quick as the attack had come, it was over. He sank back onto the bed, now damp with his sweat, and exhaled. MacLeod collapsed over him for a heartbeat, and Methos couldn't stop himself. He reached up, wrapping his fingers into the hair. For a moment MacLeod met him, pushing him back, and then moved away. Methos rolled his head to the side, exhausted.

"Not now, Methos."

"When?" he asked, throat raw, but healing.

MacLeod took his wrist, lifting it to his lips. The quick, soft kiss covered his wrist bone, and then MacLeod let him go. "Soon."

Methos nodded, slowly becoming aware that his body didn't hurt any more. He trembled as he sat up, body shaky as a newborn colt, but inhaling didn't hurt. Exhaling didn't hurt. Nothing itched. He closed his eyes. "How?"

MacLeod exhaled. "Coltec. He did the same for me, once."

"You're a shaman now, Duncan?"

MacLeod sat up next to him, wiping the blood off his chin. Methos must have caught him when he jerked the first time. "No," MacLeod said and touched his temple. "But he's in here. He was once a very, very good man."

Methos nodded, hearing the regret in Mac's voice. He waited half a dozen heartbeats before speaking again. "I thought you said you wouldn't forgive me."

"Cassandra had been in contact with three Immortals in the past month. None of them fought her."

"Better her than me?" Methos asked, meaning the question to be sarcastic, but it came out with all honesty.

"Yes," MacLeod said, quietly. He ran a hand down Methos' bare back, and it was Methos' first indication he wasn't wearing anything. He stood up on hesitant legs.

"I'd like to wash this stink off me," he said, feeling sticky from the drying sweat on the inside of his elbows and behind his knees.

MacLeod leaned back in the bed as Methos crossed the floor to the bathroom. Thank God they weren't on the barge; Methos didn't think he could navigate the slight swaying. He righted himself against the wall, and finished the last couple steps to the shower.

He was awake for the first half of the shower. Later, he remembered lathering his skin with the soap that smelled like MacLeod, and that was it.

~~~~~

Methos became aware of two things almost instantaneously. The first was that the pillow against his cheek was freshly washed and almost silken against his unshaven cheek. The second was that with both hands tucked under his chin, the hand on his hip probably didn't belong to him.

He wasn't alone in bed.

There were worse ways to wake up in the morning.

MacLeod had obviously brought him back to the bed, but he hadn't woken up for it. He stretched, working out the knots from his shoulders to the tips of his toes, and ran a hand down his ribcage idly. He turned around, rubbing his cheek against the pillow.

"Playing hard to get is one thing, Mac, but six years?" he asked.

As he thought, Mac was awake. "I didn't want to be one of your conquests."

"Oh, come on, MacLeod," Methos said, letting his annoyance show.

"You scared me," MacLeod finally said.

"I scared you?" Methos repeated, incredulously. "You must be joking."

"Methos...you...you...you slip in and out of personas like I do shoes. Your sarcasm is enough to take heads, and I never know who or what I'm with. I...I was afraid I amused you, Methos, that that's why you wanted me. When I stopped amusing you, I knew you'd leave."

Methos took a moment. "I see. You're absolutely right, of course," he said, going to get out of bed.

Mac grabbed his arm. "Where are you going?"

"You've stopped amusing me. In fact, I haven't been amused for the past four minutes, so I really have to go change my persona again."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"How did you mean it, then?" Methos asked, but lay back down in the bed.

"I mean you scare me," MacLeod said, but reached out and touched his face.

"What about you? I swear you walk around with a sign on your back that says, 'Me! Me! I'm next!'"

MacLeod stared at him, half a second away from getting angry, but laughed instead. Methos resisted the infectious sound for a heartbeat and started to laugh as well. They laughed until their sides hurt and tears ran down both their cheeks.

MacLeod gasped, twice, and then hiccuped. "I guess it's true, then."

"What?" Methos demanded, wiping his eyes.

"We do deserve each other."

"I should hope so," he said, and then spent a moment looking for Mac's hand to put back on his hip. He found it and then smiled. "Pajamas?"

"This might be taken wrong," MacLeod said. "You were thrashing last night."

Methos' smile grew into something larger. He shifted forward so that Mac's chest pressed against his and half sat up. He stroked away the hair that covered MacLeod's ear and then leaned down so he could whisper into it. "If you don't feed me, I'll eat you. And you won't like what I'll bite off first," he whispered, as seductively as he could.

MacLeod pushed him back, but not too hard. He half sat up, as well, so they were eye to eye, and Methos stretched out so he could kiss the man. It was just supposed to be a short kiss, sweet and full of promise, but MacLeod parted his lips, and suddenly it was much more. Methos' good intentions flew out the door. MacLeod lay back down, and Methos followed him, lips not breaking apart for an instant. Mac's tongue was soft against his for an instant, then hard and insisting. Methos stretched along the body under him, feeling the heat radiating through the cotton, but his stomach growled loudly, breaking the mood completely. Methos groaned and rolled off, but forgot he had switched to MacLeod's side of the bed.

He fell onto the floor in a tangle and just lay there for a second to calm his body down. MacLeod laughed, a barking sound harsh against Methos' ear, and then stepped over him, taking a moment to kiss the back of his head.

"Coffee," Mac promised. "Then food."

"And then?" Methos prompted, muffled by the carpet. He didn't feel up to raising his head.

"Then we finish what we started."

Music to his ears. Methos lifted his hand, and Mac tossed him a pair of fleece lined sweat pants. They bagged at his hips, but the soft cloth felt too good against his skin to complain. He shaved using Mac's razor and sat at the breakfast nook feeling altogether human again.

The breakfast conversation was decidedly one-sided as Methos didn't stop eating long enough to even sip his coffee. Half a slab of bacon, a mountain of hash browns, and four eggs later, Methos felt full enough to put down his fork.

"Feeling better?" MacLeod asked.

Methos just smiled, picking up his coffee. It had cooled enough not to burn, and he took a long swallow before wiping his mouth on the cotton napkin. His skin tingled, his cheeks flushed, and when he parted his lips to speak, he forgot what he was going to say. MacLeod was looking at him with such rapt attention that there didn't seem to be anything he needed to say. MacLeod reached across the table and outlined his lips with his finger, and Methos licked it, inviting it into his mouth. He sucked on it gently, tasting bacon and MacLeod. MacLeod curled his finger, catching his jaw, and lightly guided him up and over the table. The plates, leftover food, and cutlery skittered down to the floor, but neither of them minded. Methos climbed onto the table, and the sweatpants he wore slid easily across the finish as MacLeod grabbed him and pulled him closer.

They kissed again, but this time it was more of a confirmation of things that didn't need to be said. MacLeod's hands ran across his shoulders, down his arms, and then lightly guided him back. The table was still hot where the plates had been.

Mac grabbed the sweatpants, yanking them off Methos easily. Methos lifted his legs, hugging them to his chest, uncaring at how vulnerable that left him. For a moment it looked like MacLeod was unable to move, and his mouth dropped open. Methos blushed, hotly, and went to sit up, but Mac kissed his knee. "Don't you dare move a muscle," he said thickly. "You're beautiful."

Methos flushed again, deeper, but for different reasons. He couldn't stop grinning as Mac left him for an instant, coming back with a small bottle of massage oil. It broke the mood for an instant as Methos realized the scent was one he'd caught off of Amanda occasionally, but then MacLeod oiled up two fingers, and they were inside him, insistently seeking his hotspots. Mac found his prostate, and Methos threw his head back and groaned.

Mac's hot hand covered his testicles, holding them against his body gently, but nothing prepared him for the feeling of Mac's mouth against the tip of his cock. He muffled his scream into the back of his fist, and his toes honestly curled. He grabbed MacLeod's head with his free hand, forcing himself deeper inside. Fucking MacLeod's mouth with Mac's fingers buried inside him was almost too much, and he let go, wanting this to last long enough at least for him to get fucked.

MacLeod must have sensed his urgency, because he broke from the blow job and pulled his fingers out. Mac's oiled cock slid against the back of his thigh and then Mac was inside him. The earlier stretching took away all the pain, and Methos wrapped his legs around Mac's back, groaning as Mac's mouth came down over his throat. The kisses led to nips, but the slight pain only added to sensations already assaulting his body. Mac's saliva on his cock cooled it to the morning air, but soothed his skin as he reached down and grasped it, matching MacLeod's thrusts exactly.

Mac kissed him again, so gently despite the battering the rest of their bodies were giving and taking. "Methos...I can't..." MacLeod managed, pulling away from the kiss, and then his entire body shuddered. Methos' belly clenched, and he rubbed the ball of his thumb just under the head of his cock, rough enough to almost hurt, and he was gone, too.

  
Methos slowly pushed up, careful to avoid the broken plate at his feet. MacLeod looked up from wiping the semen off Methos' belly and smiled, studiously going back to the task at hand. "You missed a spot," Methos whispered, taking Mac's hand, guiding it downwards.

MacLeod put his hand over Methos' and looked up again. They were close enough Mac's breath touched his cheek. "I...uh...thanks," Methos said.

"You're welcome," MacLeod said. Neither one of them moved away from the closeness. "I love you."

Methos exhaled sharply, and Mac blinked. "Good."

"Why is that good?"

"I was getting pretty tired of this one-sided game."

"No more games," MacLeod whispered and slowly brought the cloth up Methos' cock. Methos sighed, closing his eyes.

"Ever?" Methos asked, trying to keep the hopefulness out of his voice. He failed, miserably, but didn't care.

"Ever," MacLeod agreed.

Methos smiled, leaning back to enjoy the soft roughness. "Oh, good."

The end

  



End file.
